The girl is sitting at the back of the small room peering over the top of her knees. Her bruises have faded and her hair has grown so that it sticks out over her ears and curls into her pool-dark eyes. The tan line has faded too, yellowing like the awful itchy dress she’s wearing, her skin sallow and pale. She hasn’t been outside for a long time.

Footsteps. The woman is coming.

Whenever she sees her, the girl feels sick and shaky. She can’t put a name to her emotion, she’s never experienced such a huge thing. The closest she’s ever felt is an aversion to snotty Martin Hyde who never has a hanky and always sits next to her at carpet time. She doesn’t understand why her body is hot and red and her eyes are filling with tears. But she hates the woman. Hates her.

Hates her.

Hates her.